Mayday
by quoth-the-pigeon
Summary: Arthur is sick and Francis is acting strange. FrUK. One-shot


_Thought I'd try a one-shot, though as you can see I fail at keeping things under two pages. This was a dialogue that Kagebecks27 and I did when we were both miserable with finals coming up and flu like symptoms...so yeah. Kage's away and I wont be near my computer at all, so I thought I'd post it early since it's been sitting on my computer for a week now. I hope you like it. Fading Rose is being worked on, so don't worry. _

__Chris_

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Arthur closed his eyes, a cough threatening to fall past his lips, and his chest swelled in the struggle to keep it contained. His rasp of air was guttural– filled with mucus, and rough from a swollen throat. He looked up, abnormally bright green eyes looking to the man staring forlornly out of the window and to the rain splattered garden. Arthur sniffled, drawing his legs up and taking a sip of the tea in his hands. "You don't need to be so dramatic," he called out.

Francis looked up, blue eyes filled with emotions–too many for Arthur to count. He gave a smile to the Briton, pale pink lips stretching in the expression. "I'm sorry _Angleterre_, I suppose it's just the weather." His eyes fell back to the pane of glass separating them from the grey sky outside.

Scoffing lightly, Arthur pulled the blankets up more. His eyes never left his lover's figure and he settled into the couch more as his body ached with the promise of a fever. "I'm not dying." The statement brought the blue eyes to look back at him and he continued, "You're acting like it."

Francis turned around fully, his lithe and muscular body walking slowly over to Arthur. It was a simple sight and yet England could feel his heart beat a little faster, his body warm a fraction more in appreciation. "You were running about in the rain while sick." His fingers ran briefly through Arthur's hair and then pulled away. "If you aren't careful…you might."

Arthur pulled at Francis' shirt, keeping him close as he turned his head and coughed into the yellow wool blanket. He was about to speak again when a wet, rough tongue ran over his wrist. England jerked back, fingers unfurling from his shirt and retracted his arm as he stared at the owner of the tongue.

A small white dog looked back, its fur slightly damp and its pendant collar glinting in the lights of the living room. "What?" he growled at it, receiving a tilt of a head and a small wag from the puppy Great Pyrenees. He sighed as the dog put its front paws on his leg, giving a small whine as though to say 'I'm sorry I made you run after me for an hour in the rain, but pet me?' To which Arthur wanted to say flatly– 'no'. He looked up at Francis while stroking the dog's head. "A little rain never hurt anyone. Besides, we can't have the dog killed because it's too stupid to know not to run about in a thunderstorm." A look from the blue eyes said other wise, however Arthur plowed on. "Now stop looking so dramatic and grey. It's almost depressing."

The Frenchman straightened up, his hand coming to a rest on the back of his neck and glanced down at Arthur, a small sad smile besmirching his lips. "I'm sorry." His hand slid against the couch as he began to walk away, stopping only to give Arthur's shoulder a small squeeze. "Feel better," he murmured, stooping to kiss the spot between England's furrowed eyebrows and walked away.

"Thanks," Arthur called out; scratching the chin of their newly acquired dog and watching France walk away.

"No problem," came the soft call and Arthur watched until his figure faded into the shadows of the house.

He looked at the dog staring up at him with the large brown eyes and glared at it. "You are trying to kill me, aren't you?" He coughed again as the dog let out a small whine. England patted the blanket at the edge of the couch and the dog hopped up, curling between Arthur's spread legs. Rubbing the velvet white fur of the puppy, Arthur closed his eyes and began to fall into another deep slumber – something that had been increasingly frequent with the appearance of the terrible sickness. It might have been the flu, but he didn't have a fever high enough to be worrisome.

"I wonder what's wrong with him, right Clara?" he muttered to the white fluff, who suddenly lifted her head and stared out at the window, giving a low bark. Arthur craned his neck to look out the window, covering his mouth as another wave of coughs wracked his body. His eyes became wet, and it took a moment to blink away the tears casting the world into a grey and black haze. Finally, his eyes set on the black and gold figure standing outside. Arthur stared for a minute longer, before forcing his feeble strength to might himself up and off the couch. "He'll catch cold." Clara whined again in protest as he stumbled and tottered for a moment, looking as though he was going to fall to the couch any second. Another wayward glance outside set him straight and he walked towards the door, blanket left behind on the cushions of the brick red couch.

His fingers flung the door open, and he gave a soft command to Clara to stay put. He paused to grab the umbrella in the stand and opened it quickly. Arthur shut the door behind him and began to walk forward on their lawn and to the small swing tied to the tree outside. England stopped a few feet away from Francis, the bullets of rain already soaking the other man, his hair clinging to his skin as he gazed forlornly at the horizon. A great sigh moved his shoulders and finally Arthur spoke.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Watching the rain," France said slowly. He blinked and looked back at the green eyed Englishman. "You should be inside." A frown marred his face.

A cough fell from his lips before he could stop it. He folded his arms to his chest, trying to conserve some of the warmth the air was leaching from him. "So should you." Arthur moved forward, letting the umbrella cover both him and Francis as he stood over him. "I never realized you were so eager to catch pneumonia," he muttered sourly.

"A little rain never hurt anyone." Francis eyes fell back to the horizon and the dark grey clouds that consumed it. There was a pause before he stood up. "Go inside Arthur."

England felt his face warm up. "Only if you come in too." He shivered again, coughing once more as he looked up into Francis' eyes. He looked concerned and Arthur felt wretched that he looked so ill. "And don't repeat my words back to me," he muttered, looking away to the trampled grass.

Francis gave an even look to Arthur, a beat of silence fell between them and finally France sighed. "Give me a minute Arthur, I'll be right in."

With a nod, Arthur began to trudge back to their home. He soon stopped, however, and turned back with his own worried gaze. "Something wrong, Francis?" He knew deep down that there was something wrong. There was a dark and bitter edge that clung to him, something melancholy.

Francis gave a sour laugh, head tilting up slightly. Arthur remained silent, managing to stifle yet another cough. "I don't even know yet." The words were clipped, and yet were soft with sadness.

"What does that mean?" Arthur gripped his umbrella tighter.

"Nothing Arthur." He gave a shake of his head, a lock of his plastered golden hair falling in front of his eyes. "Go inside."

"_Non_." Whenever Arthur felt he needed to add specific emphasis, he always reverted back to Francis' native tongue. Arthur watched as Francis' back tensed.

Narrowed blue eyes locked with wide green and his jaw clenched slightly. "Arthur." The words were clipped. "Go. Inside."

England felt his body tremble with fatigue and maybe even a fever at this point. "_Non_," he repeated, tensing to keep his jaw from clattering or his limbs shuddering. "_Je n'irai pas__." _He paused to cough. "Not until you tell me what's wrong."

Francis got up from the swing, their eyes parting as he began to stalk towards the edge of their lawn and where the woods began. "There is nothing wrong."

_Liar_! Arthur wanted to cry, but he held his hand to his mouth, stopping the raw agony that was quickly joining each hoarse cough. "Francis!" he called out finally, only to start shivering.

France paused, his black shirt and hair clinging to his skin. He didn't look back as he called, "Go inside Arthur, I'll be in, in a bit." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, his smooth voice hitching only a fraction. "We'll talk about it then."

The coughing continued and Arthur held at his chest, trying to stop long enough to talk to Francis once more. "Wh-Why?" he coughed again, holding out the black umbrella. "At least take this."

"I'm fine." Francis finally turned and gave a small smile over his shoulder. "Really," he added, but his tone was flat and all it made was Arthur more concerned.

"Really? So you just decide to walk through the woods in the cold rain for fun." He still held the umbrella out, and he was slowly becoming drenched. "Umbrella," Arthur choked out between a cough. "Take it. I'm not going inside until you do."

Francis turned sharply, storming back to England and snatched the umbrella from his hands. In a whirl of gold and black, he guided Arthur back to the front of the house, giving a small push towards the door. Without sound, he began to walk to the wood once more, abandoning Arthur in the middle of the yard.

He stared, stunned, and rubbed at his arm where France had grabbed him. His voice sounded confused and maybe a little hurt, even to his own ears. "Francis?"

Arthur was coughing again and barely heard, "Go inside Arthur." Even from the other side of the lawn he could hear the anger in his voice. England looked up blearily to see Francis' shoulders move with a sigh. He finally tacked on a softer, "Please."

Arthur stared at him, but France was avoiding his gaze as though it were fire. Taking a step back, England watched him in confusion. He finally found his voice, sitting heavy in his stomach next to his heart. "I-," he started and then coughed again. "Fine." His own words were abrupt, hiding the confusion and turned back to the empty house.

He took a glance back, saw that Francis had left, and entered the dark building. His eyes filled with anger, then confusion and finally hurt as he slipped off his shoes and dragged himself into the living room. He was coughing enough by the time he reached the red furniture that his chest shook each time and his throat felt as though someone had scraped nails down the soft tissue. He fell onto the cushions, not even bothering to peel away the soaked cold clothing and stared at the ceiling. A cold nose met his palm as he began to stroke Clara's head gently without looking at her.

Had he done something? Had he said something? If he had, he mustn't really be thinking straight while being ill to make Francis angry like that. He continued to ponder over his behavior, shuddering and coughing more often then he had only minutes earlier. He turned his head as Clara jumped onto the couch, putting her head on Arthur's thigh and whining again. The Briton looked into her brown doe eyes and scratched her ear, stopping soon after as he fell into a strong shiver and gazed out of the window unseeing.

Arthur could hear the door open and shut, the metal clang as Francis placed the umbrella back into the holder and walked into the kitchen. England pulled his legs up, resting his head on his knees as he listened to Francis move about the house in silence. There was a clatter of the kettle being place on and Arthur opened his eyes, Francis walking into the room seconds later. Neither said a word while the Frenchman moved to the fireplace, stoking the dying flames and adding another log. His eyes finally fell onto Arthur, disapproval gleaming in his eyes. "You should change Arthur, your clothes must be soaked."

"I-I will." He coughed, shuddering again and looking up with feverish eyes. "In a minute." He paused, turning his head for yet another cough, mucus rattling in his lungs. He opened one eye to look back at the blue. "Now, what's wrong?"

"No." Francis put another log of wood on, a frown framing his face. "Change first, talk after."

"Did I do something wrong?"

Francis paused. His hand fell into his lap as he turned back to look at Arthur, another sigh falling slowly from his lips. "Change first Arthur, I'm not kidding."

England's eyes stayed on his, his hand halting in the scratching of Clara's pristine fur. He looked away to the carpeted floor after a few seconds, shame-faced for a reason he could not even think of. "Fine," he said after a chest-rattling cough and began to walk away to the bedroom.

As Arthur stood up from the couch, he shut his eyes as the room seemed to spin and his head throbbed. Nausea filled him and before he could get his bearings, weak legs stumbled forward, nearly colliding with the coffee table and then the floor.

To his luck however, Francis' hand wrapped around his arm and another on his shoulder– stopping his face from meeting the unforgiving ground. Arthur looked up as Francis set him right, leading him gently towards the staircase. "Easy Arthur," he mumbled softly, stopping England from tripping over his feet.

At the stairs, Arthur pushed him away weakly, standing on his shaky legs like a newborn foal. "I'm fine," he whispered, staring up to the landing in dread. "I'll…" he trailed off, cut off by the coughing fit that suddenly seized him. " I'll just be a minute," he choked out finally, taking the steps one at a time. He was leaning against the banister halfway up, staring at the floor below dizzily as another cough filled him. He finally dragged himself to the top, looking down to Francis a few steps behind. "Y-You should go check the kettle," he muttered and turned away, before he could see anything he didn't want to. "It should be," cough, "boiling by now."

"If you're sure," came the worried reply, but Arthur didn't look back to see if his face matched his tone. There was a beat of silence and then Arthur could hear him walk back slowly down the stairs. The sandy haired man stayed still for a moment, listening to France make his way to the kitchen and the sounds of the kettle rattling and a soft '_merde_' floated up. Arthur made his way to the bedroom, using the walls as support.

When he finally crawled into the bedroom, he peeled off the clothes with shaking fingers and a flushed face. His body ached and he pulled on a robe, too tired to put on anything else. He fell onto the bed like dead weight, shutting his eyes to the miniscule light falling between the cracks of the window shades and let out a choked hoarse whisper, "I'll be down in a minute."

It felt like hours as England focused on rasping short breaths in and out, coughing intermittently, but it could only have been minutes as he heard the soft knock at the door and the soft sweep as it was pushed open.

"Arthur?"

England looked up blearily at Francis, whose face was concerned and blue eyes soft. His shirt was only halfway done, and Arthur guessed he had taken some clean clothes from the dryer. "I'm fine," he muttered finally, shutting his eyes halfway and coughing once more.

"No, you're not," France said with a frown, his eyes roamed over Arthur's apparel and the frown deepened. He gave a sigh and walked over to the dresser, opening it and grabbing a pair of grey sweatpants and a forest green tee. He tossed them to Arthur who caught them more with his chest then his arms. "Put those on."

"I will, just give me a minute." Arthur shut his eyes again, holding onto the fabric in his arms. Another cough ripped at his throat.

"Put them on before I do it for you," came the quick reply and Arthur shot his eyes open to see Francis giving him a look over his shoulder as he began to walk back to the hall.

Struggling to sit up, Arthur stared at Francis. "What?"

Francis gave a small smirk back. "You heard me."

A blush filled Arthur's face, reddening his ears. "I'm perfectly," he paused to sneeze which set off another wave of coughs, "capable of doing it myself." He halted to cough into the crook of his arm and looked up again blearily. "I'm fine." He began to pull off the top sleeves of the robe, allowing it to fall down to his waist as he pulled on the shirt.

"I'm out in the hall if you need me," Francis said with a nod and closed the door.

Green eyes watched the door close then looked back to the pants in his hand to glare at them as evilly as he could while sick, which is to say– not much. England untied the robe and sat up, sniffing back congestion while swaying with the throbbing in his head. He gave a soft whine, too low for Francis to hear, and began to pull on the sweats. He was fine until he reached his waist, which to put them on fully he would have to stand. Arthur counted to two, and then swung his body up and over the bed, cursing as he stumbled with the feverish headache. His vision swam and he luckily fell back to the bed as his legs gave out.

"Are you alright?" Francis asked from behind the door.

With another cough, Arthur curled into a ball. "Fine. I'll be downstairs in a minute."

The door opened with a creak and Francis' head came in. He looked serious, his eyes watching Arthur solemnly. "Will you be able to make it down without breaking your neck?" Arthur watched a wet stand of hair hall from his neck.

"I'm not invalid," he growled, curling tighter into the ball and closing his eyes again as he coughed. His ribs were starting to ache. "It's only a cold." He fell into silence as soft shrill whistle filled the house. "Is that the kettle?" he finally murmured.

Francis opened the door more, stepping inside and Arthur cracked an eye open to watch him. "It can wait," he said softly, coming over to the edge of the bed.

"I said I was," another cough, "fine."

"Why can't you just accept help Arthur?"

"Why can't you tell me what's wrong?"

Francis' face hardened as he stood over Arthur, anger tingeing his voice. "Why can't you understand that I might not even know?" His voice dropped slightly, as if in pain. "Or that it might hurt too much if I did."

With a soft rasp, Arthur opened both his eyes more and looked at Francis, his face glowing slightly in the soft stripes of light from the blinds. "I didn't mean it like that." Absinthe eyes fell down to the sheets. "I just wanted to see if I could do anything." The words came out mumbled as he pressed his face to the surprisingly cool sheets. He began to cough again.

A sigh came from France and Arthur watched as he rubbed at his brow, shutting his eyes and gave a low sigh. He stilled and then the Frenchman's eyes opened once again, blue eyes weary. "Just let me help you, _Angleterre_."

"Fine." The reply was muffled in the sheets.

France moved forward, his hands curling around the sheets and his shoulder. Arthur looked up then struggled to sit up with as little help as possible. The movement however seemed to set off another attack of coughing and before he knew what had happened, he was doubled over and clutching his rib cage tightly. His eyes were clenched shut as he continued to cough, throat in agony and shaking from the power of his lungs. A hand came to his back, rubbing and patting at it. When the coughing subsided enough he looked up miserably at Francis. "I can't stand colds." He leaned back into the touch and looked at the doorway. "Maybe I should just stay here." Sure, the room wasn't heated, seeing as it was an old home, but surely the bed would be fine. As if to concrete his thoughts on not moving, the room seemed to have doubled all of its contents and was starting to swirl. He sighed, knowing he had a fever.

Arthur flinched as ice-cold hands fell onto his cheeks and then his forehead. Francis leaned forward, putting his cheek to Arthur's brow and gave a soft hum. He pulled back and looked at Arthur directly into his eyes while the Briton blinked slowly. "You're a little warm. We should get you down by the fire."

With a shiver, Arthur rubbed at his eyes. "Too tired," he mumbled.

The bed dipped as Francis leaned back, appraising him. "Can you hold on?"

"What?"

In one fluid movement, Francis pulled Arthur into his arms as though he were no weight at all. He gave a soft jostle, holding the smaller man tightly in his grip. "Hang on," he ordered quietly, making his way out of the room. "It's only for a bit."

Arthur clenched on tightly, noting through a haze of lashes that he was wearing another black shirt. When Francis turned his head, exposing his neck and letting a few damp strands towards the darker blonde's face, Arthur could smell the rainwater still clinging to him, the soft scent of roses, and the scent that was just _Francis_. He opened his eyes more as he heard the crackle of a fire and could still see how the room spun violently.

Francis finally set him down softly onto the couch, pulling the blankets up and setting another pillow behind his head so the congestion wouldn't drip down Arthur's throat. England twisted his head away, groaning at the constant shrill of the kettle blare. Francis' cool fingers brushed at his short hair and rested on his temple as he said softly, "There we are. I'll be right back." His footsteps lead away and finally the kettle was silenced.

England put his hand over his face, the pressure easing the ache away slightly. It also stopped the throbbing a little. A cold wet nose found its way under his other palm and he looked between his fingers to Clara. She tilted her head giving another whine. "Go to your bed Clara," he sighed. The puppy slunk away, curling into a small white puff in the corner of the room, giving him a doleful look. Arthur looked away and shut his eyes again. His mind wandered over Francis' mood, confused at what was wrong or what he could have done. "Bloody hell," he groaned finally.

He was so caught up in his musings that he failed to hear Francis return until his cool hand pulled Arthur's away from his face, placing a cup of tea into it. He sat up, breathing in the scented steam and took a small sip. The sweet flavor of mint greeted him and he sighed as it slowly warmed him up.

"Is it alright?" Francis asked, looking down at him as he placed his own cup on the coffee table.

"Yes," he murmured, taking another sip slowly. "Thank you."

Francis gave another sigh and bent down, easing himself between the space behind Arthur's back and the sofa's arm with the pillows. He gathered the Englishman into his arms, placing Arthur's head against his chest and pulled the covers around them. Arthur remained tense for a moment, not expecting the comforting gesture. Soon however, he gave up and relaxed in the embrace, allowing the warmth to still his shivering.

"Are you alright Arthur?" Francis asked, worry in his tone.

Absinthe eyes looked up at his face, searching for a moment. He looked back down to the hot liquid in his hands. "I've been better," he admitted, and then turned to look at the fire. "At least there are no burgers this time. " He scowled and took another sip of tea.

The hum from Francis tickled his back and Arthur made a face. "I told Alfred to stay away." France's arms pulled tighter; meshing their two bodies together as though he were frightened Arthur would simply vanish. "Are you warm enough?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Arthur defiantly felt warmer in his face. "Q-Quite well enough." He coughed again and rubbed at his aching chest. "You?"

The nod Francis gave brushed his chin against Arthur's crown. "I'm fine." His stubbled chin rested on top of Arthur's head as he gazed at the fire.

England took another sip of tea, pulling away to put the cup on the tabletop. His mind glazed over Francis's actions, and worry began to fill him. He wanted to know what was wrong, but didn't dare ask a third time. He was falling asleep; taking the chance the lull of coughing gave him to rest his lungs and throat.

Suddenly, in the midst of silence Francis spoke, dragging his thin fingers through Arthur's hair. "You worry me, Arthur."

The Englishman looked up, eyes settling on blue. "I'm sorry?" he asked in confusion.

Francis shook his head, the golden hair bobbing with the motion. "Don't be sorry about something you can't help."

In the silence that fell, Arthur blinked to make sure he understood him properly. He turned his body more towards him. "Is that what's making you worry?" he asked with a frown. A stupid cold was making him act like this?

Francis gave a sigh, pulling his hand away from England's head and wrapping around his torso. "I suppose it is." His eyes fell back to the fire and his lips pressed into a thin line. "You know, it wasn't that long ago that something like this could kill someone."

Arthur gave another cough, groaning internally at the raw pain. "It would never have killed us." He shut his eyes again.

Francis wrapped his arms around him tighter, lowering his head until his mouth was by Arthur's ear. He pressed his face into the crook of Arthur's shoulder and then tilted his head to look at him. "It might," he paused, drawing back. "Who's to say? I've seen too many people die, humans and nations alike."

"I'm not dying," he reassured him, leaning into Francis' chest. "And it's been a long time since any of us have." He coughed again, gasping for air between the episodes.

"That doesn't mean you can't Arthur!" The words were brimming with emotion. Francis' hands clenched slightly and relaxed, favoring instead to keep Arthur close to him. His head fell and rested against Arthur's shoulder. "Just knowing that..." he trailed off and Arthur could feel his entire body shudder in fear. "It scares me Arthur," he whispered. "I don't know if you know how much you mean to me." His breathing echoed in Arthur's ear.

Arthur was silent, processing the words as fast as his feverish mind could. "I do," he finally said, fingers lacing with Francis. He hoped the emotion was palpable in his voice as much as it was in his mind. "And you know how much I care about you." He paused to cough again, this time lightly and he sighed in relief. "But it's only a cold. Is that all that's bothering you?"

Francis was silent, forehead still resting on Arthur's shoulder. England gave him a curious glance and the reached out to grab his cooling tea.

"I guess you don't know what day it is." He remained silent for another second and England began to take a small sip, still looking at Francis in confusion. "Not that I expected you to," he tacked on quickly.

"Wh-What?" he choked out.

"It's the day Joan was killed."

Arthur stiffened, stilling as he looked away from the Frenchman. "Francis…" he started, but what could he say?

Francis pulled away, his hair feathering Arthur's cheek and stared at the fire. His hands still held Arthur close to his frame. "It's alright Arthur," his voice cracked. "I-I don't blame you."

Arthur couldn't bring himself to look at Francis. Joan. Of course. How could he forget? He wanted to curl into a ball and stay that way forever. He looked at his own hands and they were shaking. "I–" he stopped to cough and began to pull away from Francis. "I'm sorry. I should go."

The arms held tighter however and Francis put his chin on Arthur's head. "No Arthur, please don't."

Arthur coughed, looking at Francis' hands, and realized that no matter how much he wanted to be away – he had no strength to move. He remained quiet instead, wishing the silence would stay.

Francis seemed to have another idea however. "I loved her Arthur." It was a stab to his heart, stilling the breath in Arthur's throat. "As much as a nation could love a mortal. But…I couldn't do anything to help her. I was too late." His blue eyes never moved from the flames of the fire. "It hurt me so much when she died. More than I thought it could. But she was destined to die, as I am destined to live longer than anyone should."

Arthur shut his eyes, but the crackle of the fire was a portal in his memories to the pyre so long ago. He flinched, thinking of the fateful day. England snapped opened his eyes again, not wanting to think of the memory and gazed at the blanket covering his legs. "I'm sorry. I truly am."

Francis nodded, his chest swelling in a soft sigh. "She was a beacon of hope, of light." He paused and Arthur listened to his breath hitch and he knew he was holding back tears. "But she's gone now. I don't blame you Arthur, not anymore. You've become that for me now."

England turned to look at him, "What?"

"You, Arthur. Not what you stand for, not for the country you represent, but you." His grasp around Arthur's waist gave a squeeze. "I don't know if I could stand to loose that again."

With a hesitation, Arthur held Francis' hand tightly. "I'm not going anywhere." He closed his eyes with the exhaustion of the fever running though his body and allowed his body to limply rest against Francis.

There was a ginger squeeze to his hand and Arthur heard Francis give a soft, dry laugh. The rush of breath rustled his hair. "I-I know. But I guess you'll have to forgive me if I worry too much."

Arthur continued to cough, ending up being out of breath. "Y-You're forgiven." He cleared his throat, wincing. "J-Just promise me you'll…tell me next time r-rather than w-walking…away." He lurched forward, coughing violently again. When the fit dissipated, he looked at Francis. "I worry about…you too."

Francis gave a small smile as he nodded. "Right, sorry." He frowned, taking note of his feverish gaze and placed his hand against Arthur's cheek. He gave Arthur a concerned glance. "Your fever is worsening. Are you warm enough?"

"Mmm," Arthur hummed. He shut his eyes as he coughed, noticing in detachment how he was starting to shiver. He had noticed his fever had worsened, but the aching from the cough had taken over his thoughts.

He felt Francis' muscles move as he reached forward and pulled the cup of tea out of the Englishman's hand, placing it on the table with a definite 'clack'. Arthur sat still, until Francis started to move behind him forcing his body to rock. He turned his head, squinting at him in confusion as he pulled off his shirt. "What are you doing?" he asked, watching him slide out from behind him and go over to the fireplace, setting a log to the fire and stoking it.

"Getting you warm," he said, looking over to Arthur lying on the couch. He then moved over to him, sliding over the carpet quickly and began to ease him gently out of his own green shirt.

"What are you doing now?" he mumbled as Francis pulled his arm out of the sleeve. Green eyes were fluctuating between confusion, embarrassment, and amusement.

Ocean blue looked back, concern and worry palpable. "Sharing body heat, it's easier through skin contact." He slipped back between the sheets and Arthur's back. Unfortunately, the movement sent another crippling wave of coughing and he began to cough until tears fell from his eyes and he was gasping for air.

He could feel Francis' hands rub soothingly at his back, his breath hitching in concern and it took a few minutes until Arthur could move back into Francis' embrace. He was panting, and if he hadn't been so cold he knew he would have been sweating slightly.

"M'okay," he finally sighed, glancing up to worried blue before shutting his eyes. He took another breath falling quiet. "Thanks," he breathed.

"Are you sure?"

Arthur nodded his head, somewhat delirious. The heat from Francis was already seeping into his skin, warming his clammy body and the waves of heat from the fire ghosted over his skin. He had worried Francis enough, he thought, and began to fall into a feverish sleep.

Francis leaned back against the couch arm, sliding both their bodies down to a reclining position. "Get some sleep_, Angleterre_," Francis whispered, leaning his head down to place a chaste kiss against his head.

Somehow, Arthur's thoughts drifted back to Joan. "I'm sorry," he murmured. His words were dead with sleep.

"For what?" France dipped his fingers through the short locks and brought the blankets up higher.

"Everything."

Francis was looking down at Arthur in confusion, until he realized the feverish tone to his words and patted his arm gently. "You have nothing to be sorry about." He gave another kiss, his lips falling upon cool temples. "Sleep." He let his head fall forward to Arthur's shoulder. "It will all be alright when you wake up."

Arthur thought it was interesting how his tone had become hazy and was raising up and down in tone…or was that the fever? He gave another cough. "Alright." His breath was coming out in short pants and he knew his face was flushed. However, all that was slowly becoming less and less important as he fell into the darkness of feverish sleep, ferried by the stroking of his hair by Francis' lithe fingers.

Flashes of swastikas filled his mind, the gleaming boots and guns forcing blood from a familiar body and he shot up, body aching and breath coming in spurts. His eyes ran wildly about the room, searching, and he began to cough once more. Strong hands curled around his shoulder and then moved to his back. He would have flinched, the terror of the dream still vivid but the familiar presence holding him kept him still and he relaxed into Francis' arms.

"Shh. Relax. It's okay." Francis' face appeared in the edge of Arthur's vision. His hair was dry and Arthur wondered how long he was out. Another memory of the dream fell past his mind's eye as he looked at the golden hair. He gave a shudder.

"Francis?" he asked, as though to make sure the man was real and he was not still trapped in the nightmare.

"Right here Arthur," Francis said. His words held apprehension, and Arthur curled his fingers around the other's hand.

"Good," he whispered and continued to pant from the fever. "I'm glad they didn't get you." His eyes closed against the light that made his head throb.

There was a pause of silence and Francis shifted slightly. "Who didn't get me?" he asked finally.

The haze of fever seemed to have also loosened his lips, for he soon spurted out, "The SS." He shivered and curled up more, turning his cheek into France's chest and listened to the slow steady heart rate of his beloved.

He could hear Francis' heart speed up for a second, and then slow again. "No Arthur." Francis rubbed his knuckles down Arthur's bare arm. "They don't have me." Arthur gave a nod, still in the dismal grasp of the illness.

"Good." He sneezed and gave a mumble. "I'd have vaporized them if you were."

A bubble of laughter rumbled in Francis' chest, and Arthur smiled at the noise. However, when he spoke, his voice was dry. "Vaporized? Really now, _mon cher_."

Arthur gave a soft frown, still keeping his eyes closed as he rested. "I'm serious." He gave a halfhearted snap. "Just like that."

Francis shook his head and Arthur peeked up. "Go back to sleep Arthur." His cool hands touched his cheek for a moment, reading the temperature of the fever and reclined more on the sofa, pushing England down a little more. It was then that Arthur realized he had a damp cloth on his forehead, France having placed it on his brow while he slept. Francis rotated it, flipping it to a cooler side and then bobbing his fingers through Arthur's hair again.

"No," Arthur slurred childishly, watching as the other man raised a slim eyebrow.

"Arthur, you need your rest."

"What if they come when I'm asleep?" He coughed, waiting for an answer.

His fingers had paused, but after a hesitation, Francis went back to stroking England's hair. His voice was low, "They won't. They're not around anymore."

He shook his head, groaning slightly as nausea came with it. "How do you know?" he breathed, logic in the grasp of the fever. "Who'll watch over you?"

"I'm fine Arthur." Francis squeezed his hand. "But if you're not rested, how are you going to defeat them?"

Bright glassy green eyes looked up. He was too tired to hear the worry in Francis' tone. "With the unicorns obviously." He folded his arms lethargically, daring Francis to argue with him, even if he was delirious in the fever.

Francis snorted lightly, trying to hide his smirk. "But the unicorns need their rest too, no?"

He tried to furrow deeper into the body heat, allowing the scent of his beloved to fill him. Arthur thought about the words for a moment, sluggishly trying to understand. He then glared up at the amused blue. "Shows how much you know about unicorns."

"So they'll protect me until you wake up again."

It took a while to reply due to the malicious coughing. England sighed, rubbing his chest. "I don't want to go back to sleep." He cleared his throat and blinked against the sleep. "Besides, you don't know the first thing about their tactics." He began to cough violently again, holding to his sides and wishing he had enough air to breathe properly.

Francis sat them both up, rubbing Arthur's exposed back. His eyes were filled with distress at seeing the obviously progressing fever. His hand massaged the area between Arthur's shoulder blades, trying to relax him enough to rest. "Sleep, Arthur," he susurrated. "I'll wake you if we get into trouble."

Something suddenly pulled Arthur out of the haze of fever, and there was a cold feeling in his gut. He continued to cough violently, doubling over in the force of it. His hand flew to his mouth, the raw agony still inside him–but was now accompanied by something else. "No, I-" he tried to voice pathetically to Francis.

"Stop talking Arthur, you're making it worse." He could hear the frown in his voice.

Something warm splattered into Arthur's palm as he coughed and he tensed. He clenched it quickly, turning his head away from Francis. With a dreading peek, he glanced down to see the dark blood smeared in his hand. England closed his hand again, shutting his eyes as his gut turned to ice. _Well, that's not good_, he thought and resumed coughing again.

There was a soft "Damn it" and suddenly Francis was up, holding his discarded shirt to Arthur and clearing the blood away. Arthur looked up to wide frightened eyes. However, the moment was short lived for another wave of coughing caused him to shut his eyes and hold his hand over his mouth, gasping for air between coughs like a drowning man. Hands tightened around him, pulling Arthur flush against Francis' body and he began to rock. "Come on now Arthur, just relax. Calm down now."

"Who-Who said I was panicking?" Arthur shot between coughs, looking up at the other man while blinking away tearing eyes.

"No one." Francis' tone was oddly calm and Arthur knew he was scared. He went back to rubbing at Arthur's back, though his hand seemed to be a little shaky. Or was that Arthur's body that was shaking? "You just need to relax."

"I am." He coughed again, bringing more blood up into his palm.

"_Merde_."

Arthur looked up while Francis got off the couch, picking up Arthur's shirt and placing it back on his body. He looked back to the red hand, holding onto Francis' shirt like a lifeline. "Well that isn't normal," he muttered, more to himself.

"No. It's not." Francis flew out of the living room. "Stay here while I get your coat."

Arthur looked at the furnished room, before coughing again. Clara trotted over, wagging her tail slightly as Arthur looked at her. He reached out to pet her, but stopped when he saw the blood still dying his hand. He looked towards the doorway, standing up with a shudder and Clara whined again, circling him as though concerned. "It'll be all right," he said to her.

He couldn't see Francis coming back, and another wave of coughing came and he clutched his ribs. "Francis…" he choked out and fell to the floor, his legs giving out. Clara began to bark and Arthur shut his eyes to white oblivion.

* * *

Francis sprinted past the too sluggish sliding door to the emergency room. His jacket hanging open and chest still bare as he rushed to bring the limp Englishman to the hospital. Arthur's skin was pale, his breathing rattling in his chest, lips turning blue. "HELP!" he cried as he ran in, rainwater dripping heavily from his soaked hair.

A gurney came to meet him, followed by a whirlwind of white and voices all chirping at Francis to tell them what happened. He could barely hear them, blue eyes still trained on the too still form of his love before him. Arthur's chin was covered in blood, a small trickle still pooling out of the corner of his mouth. Francis moved to wipe it away, hands trembling as he chased after the gurney as it was sprinted away towards one of the countless emergency operation rooms, people pushing his hand away to place an air mask over Arthur's gasping lips.

It wasn't long before more hands were on him, pushing him away from Arthur, his body too numb to put up much resistance. A blue curtain was shut, the bright lights allowing the shadows of the people within move about feverishly. His heart clenched. His chest constricted around him, stealing his breath. "N-no…not ag-gain…" he whispered, tears streaming down his face. His knees gave out beneath him, his body crumbling onto the floor as his eyes distanced himself from the present.

Joan's lifeless body lying before him, charred beyond all recognition. All too soon, it faded to Arthur's body– as if some demon wished to watch him suffer. His heart clenched again, the depression and agony that Joan's death had brought him took over, doubling and tripling as he imagined Arthur soon joining her. Bile rose in his throat, his stomach quivering as everything assaulted him at once. Arthur. His Arthur, lay dying only a few feet away and he could do nothing to help. With Joan, he wasn't there, didn't see her till after it was too late. Now– now he was here, but still helpless to do anything. "_Non_!" he cried out, his voice calming into a whimper soon after, more tears flowing from his ocean colored eyes. "Not him…I c-can't," he pleaded to the thinning air. "I can't l-lose him! N-not to-day."

* * *

"Where the bloody hell am I?"

Arthur looked around the white void, staring at nothing and everything at the same time. He scoffed, folded his arms and glared at the abyss. The only sign he was worried came with the clench of his jaw and the quick darts of malachite eyes. He sat down after minutes of silence, still looking around.

It was then that he noticed how his chest no longer hurt, he wasn't sick and there was no ache in his body. Arthur glanced down to his hand, the blood no longer there. He looked up again and twisted to see if there was anything he had missed seeing. There was nothing but white. Oh god, was he dead? Arthur shook his head again, forcing himself to stay calm and put his head in his hands.

He sat like that for minutes, maybe hours. There was nothing but the sound of his breathing and rustling of his clothes. What had happened? Was he dead? Was he alive? Where was Francis? The questions marched on through his mind until he looked through his fingers and found himself staring at grass stained bare feet.

He stared, finally glancing up as he looked for the face of the owner. A girl, barely a woman smiled back. In her hands was a thorn-less white rose and her hands dipped down as she smoothed out her forget-me-not blue dress. Arthur reeled back, scrambling away from the girl.

"Hello _Angleterre_," she said softly, her voice melodic. Sky blue eyes crinkled slightly as her smile widened upon seeing the expression of surprise on Arthur's face.

"J-Joan" he choked out. He _was_ dead then, wasn't he?

Her smile faltered a little and then she sat next to him, tucking her slim legs under her and holding Arthur's hand. "I'm sorry Arthur." She began.

"F-For what?" _I should be begging forgiveness from you_, he thought.

She glanced away and then focused back on Arthur's face. "I wanted to talk to you, but the only way I could was if you were unconscious…" she gave a little fidget and blushed, looking down at the rose in her fingers. "I made you ill."

"You what?" he asked, staring at her in confusion. A small nettle of anger filled him and then instantly vaporized. He deserved it, didn't he?

Her fingers traced lightly over his veins and she looked up. "I made you very ill so I could speak to you. You aren't dead though, if that is what you are worrying about."

There was a beat of silence. "Why?" she looked into his eyes in confusion, sun kissed hair bobbing slightly. "I…I'm responsible for your death. Why not kill me?"

Joan tilted her head, a small sad smile of her lips. "Because it would hurt Francis too much." Upon the mention of his name, her eyes became radiant with emotion. "I can't blame you too much either, Arthur. It was war."

He looked away.

"Besides, you have been doing the one thing I can no longer do."

Arthur turned his eyes to her, meeting the kind sky blue eyes. She sighed and looked at the rose. "What would that be?" he asked quietly.

"Taking care of what I loved most." Joan shifted, moving to her knees, touching the velvet of the petals. "Is he well?"

Arthur sat up more, looking at the small woman. "Very."

"Is he happy?"

He remained quiet for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, at least I try to make it so."

Her eyes looked up and met his. "Do you love him?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation and he searched her eyes.

Joan nodded, moving to pick at the fabric of her dress. She tilted her head and smiled at the floor. She gave a soft sigh. "I'm not very used to wearing things like this," she admitted, gesturing towards her blue dress. Joan gave a scowl for a moment, and then lapsed into silence. "May I ask something of you then?"

"Anything." His head bowed. "I owe you that much."

Her fingers came to his chin. Her skin was cool like spring rain. "Will you watch over him where I can not? Take care of him and protect him? Love him?"

"I will."

"Do you promise?"

"I do." Her hands pulled away from his face, and she stood up fluidly, her dress twirling lightly as she turned away. "Joan?" he asked. Her eyes looked back. "I'm sorry. I really, truly am."

She gave a small smile and walked away. Arthur looked down at the rose she had left behind, fingering the bruised petals softly.

* * *

Francis paced about the room Arthur now lay in, still unconscious. They had removed the breathing tube they had forced down his throat when they had first brought him in. He was still pale, frail looking against the bed sheets.

Francis didn't even try to fight back the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. He had been fretting over Arthur's conditions for hours now, his knees almost buckling for the fifth time. Exhaustion took over, his body beginning to shiver as the cool air blew from the overhead vent and through his thin layer of still damp clothing. He shook his head as he continued his pacing; pausing to glance at Arthur and make sure he was still there, that he hadn't faded away. The sight almost brought him to his knees again, his shaking hands reaching out to grasp the windowsill to keep himself up. "W-why," he gasped out, voice creaking from hours spent choking back silent sobs. "All my fault, damn it! It had to be today. I knew I should have just left it alone, should have just kept my mouth shut."

He stared out the window, watching as the storm seemed to pick up as the day was coming to a close. The weather seemed fitting today, depressing and gloomy, with winds and rain that chilled him to the bone. He couldn't help but wish it had rained on this day all those years ago, maybe his Joan would have been spared till he could have made it to her. Francis shook his head at the thought, turning his attention back to his still living love. His thoughts traveled back to his admission earlier, bringing with it the feeling of guilt. "It always happens to people I care about. Damn it. It's my fault, all my fault!"

Once again, Francis looked at Arthur, watching his chest rise and fall weakly. He was stronger than he had been when he had first brought him in. The doctors didn't know what was wrong with him. At first they suspected numerous things, pneumonia or some other respiratory infection. Arthur hadn't responded to any of the treatments, before suddenly turning the corner. Even so, he was weak, and the doctors couldn't be sure if he would make it through the night.

"I should have just stayed away," he continued, his own voice giving some comfort from the too silent room. Once again, his knees buckled as a new sob wracked his aching chest. Sucking in a breath, he moved to sit down in a chair he had earlier pulled by Arthur's bed. His body easily sunk into the chair, muscles aching, chest heaving as he reached out and grasped Arthur's limp hand. Francis bowed his head as more sobs wracked his weary frame. "I'm so sorry Arthur," he whispered, between whimpers. "_Désolé_."

* * *

Pain. That was the first thing he knew when he began returning conscious once more. His chest was aching, his throat hurt and felt swollen and he felt a small itching in his arm. He forced his eyes open, lids feeling as thought they were made of lead and welded shut. The world was bleary white, bright light piercing Arthur's retinas. He blinked, wondering if he was still dreaming. However after a few minutes, Arthur was able to see shadows in the room, cast by the fluorescent lighting above. He twisted his head lightly, noticing finally the dry antiseptic air of the room as he forced his eyes to stare at the IV line in his wrist. A rustle of cloth whispering movement caught England's attention again, this time to the corner of the room.

Francis was standing by the window, his back to Arthur and gazing out at the stormy grey light outside. Arthur gave a soft sigh of relief, watching him for a moment longer. He began to shut his eyes again, still hazed with the clouds of sleep, until a small choking sound came from his lover's direction. His eyes strained open again and he watched as Francis' shoulders shook. His head turned slightly, a sliver of his face showing as he looked at something in the distance.

Arthur's heart clenched as he noticed the tears on his face, watching as Francis swiped at them with a shaky hand. His eyes were rimmed with red, contrasting with the beautiful blue of his irises. Another choked out sob fell from his lips and he moved a hand to cover his mouth. It hurt England to see him like this, to see him in pain because of him. His throat was quickly swelling with emotion.

England tried to speak, but as he struggled, no sound came out. The only sound he could hear was a soft squeak, and that was only because he was straining to hear it. He tried clearing his throat, but to no avail. It felt like cotton had been stuffed down his windpipes, shutting off all noise. With a frown, Arthur looked around him, eyes finally falling to a small cup on a tableside near him. He looked back to Francis, body lethargic, and watched as he covered his eyes with his hand. Arthur looked back to the cup, his fingers reaching out and trying to graze the plastic. His arm shook with the excursion, and fell back to the bed softly. He scowled silently and tried again, finally touching it with his fingers and toppling it over with a clatter, watching the water spill onto the floor.

Francis whipped around, eyes wide as he looked to Arthur. Green looked back, calling to him. In three quick strides he was over next to him, hands feathering over Arthur's head and into his hair, over his arm and then his cheek. His eyes were soft and Arthur could see something else in the ocean blue that he didn't recognize. "Arthur," he said, it was so relieved and England searched his face. His head fell, the golden locks brushing his shoulder as tears began to fall from his eyes. "I-I'm so sorry, Arthur."

Arthur looked up at him, his mouth opening slightly as he tried to ask him what for, only to work his throat futilely as no sound came out. He frowned in frustration, staring at Francis in confusion. What was he apologizing for?

Francis was soon shaking his head, blue eyes adverted. "This is all my fault." His head fell down further, bowed as though weighted with a great burden. His damp hair fell in front of his eyes, acting as a curtain. A whisper fell through pale lips, and Arthur knew it was meant for Francis himself. "M-my fault."

Green eyes narrowed. His fault? His fault! What was his fault? If Arthur had his voice, he would be lecturing Francis for saying such ridiculous things, but the hurt he had seen in his eyes, the fear, was too real to ignore. _Well_, Arthur thought dryly, _he sure wasn't keeping his promise to Joan_. Arthur moved his hand, placing it into the Frenchman's, shaking as he spelled a word with his finger. S-T-O-P.

Arthur watched in surprise as Francis continued to cry, pulling his hand away to wipe away a tear or two as they trailed down his face. His body continued to shake with contained sobs, lips moving with whispered words. "Always happens to people I care about. Should have just stayed away."

_No_! Arthur wanted to cry. _It's not your fault! It's not!_ He looked up at Francis while he shut his eyes and tried to clear his throat again, earning a soft rough gasp. Arthur entwined his fingers, pulling at France's other hand and gave it a squeeze. _Stop it_. He mouthed. Another glance at the tears and he took a deep breath, forcing his throat to work slightly. "...ot…fault…"

Francis paused slightly, starting at the words. Arthur watched his pale lips force into a grin, though it looked pained and more akin to a grimace. "Y-yes it is." He wiped at his eyes again. "First J-Joan and now you." He stopped and turned away. "H-how selfish of me. Y-your throat m-must be dry. Let me go get you some water." He began to back away, retreating and a sudden panic filled Arthur.

His hand shot out, gripping the material of his jacket and holding fast. He noticed how damp and cool it was, growling internally at him not taking more care of himself. England shook his head slowly, feeling the fabric of the pillow slide against the back of his head. "Not fault," he murmured quietly. His throat was aching, and he had to clip his sentences. "…Stay." He struggled a little, but was glad there was no coughing. "M'worried." He gazed with fire in his eyes, daring Francis to walk away in such a wretched state.

Arthur watched as Francis stilled, turning his head slightly. England took another rasp of air, wishing the stupid mask wasn't covering his face. He twisted his fingers in the bed sheet with his free hand, wishing if Joan had made him sick, she could make him better. What use was he if he couldn't reassure Francis?

France looked back more, moving back closer to the bed with an air of misery. "I-I almost lost you," he choked, staring at the floor. Lithe fingers clenched the fabric of the sheets tightly. "I-I can't." More tears rolled down his face. He fell to his knees as they went weak; putting his head to the edge of the bed and Arthur stared. His face buried into the linen. "I just can't Arthur."

Arthur moved his hand to stroke at Francis' hair. _Stop. Stop. Stop_. There was a sudden cooling in his throat and the aching was taken away. He blinked, and then looked back at Francis, feeling himself tearing a little at seeing how much pain he had caused him. "Don't cry." His voice was still hoarse sounding and could go no higher then a ghost of a whisper. "I'm right here." His fingers fell to his temple, brushing it slightly before he was restricted by the IV in his arm. He gave a smile, though it went unseen. "I'm not going anywhere."

He pulled away from the bed and Francis looked at Arthur through his red eyes. His face was twisted in agony and grief, making Arthur's chest clench. "I-I promised Joan I'd be there for her…always. Now…I w-wanted to…for you, but-but…" he gave another sob, body shaking and Arthur wanted to hold him tightly, anything to stop the tears. "I-I couldn't do anything Arthur." His voice was rough from the tears and cracked slightly.

England wasn't sure what to say, if it was his place to say so. "She knows," he said softly, he blinked against the lights and licked dry lips. He gave an even gaze to France. "And…you're right here..." His voice was already getting tired. "You're here for me. Everything…will be all… right…" He finally closed his eyes, briefly and then looked back into the blue. His fingers moved back into Francis' palm, stenciling painfully slow his message. I L-O-V-E Y-O-U.

Francis brought Arthur's fingers to lips, a low pitiful laugh falling from his lips. It was sad however. "I..." he paused. "I love you too Arthur." He took his free hand, the one Arthur wasn't holding onto for dear life, and cleared the tears away from his eyes with the back of his hand. However, for every tear he pushed away two more fell into its place. After sniffing and trying to rub away the water, he gave another pitiful laugh. "Would you just look at me? I must sound like an over dramatic woman, no?" A pained smile filled his face.

Arthur frowned. "No," he mumbled, bringing up one of his own fingers to cull away the tears. Fingers rubbed against the stubble on his chin and then fell down to the bed. He could feel the grasp of sleep coming back though, and began to still. "Francis?" he mumbled.

Lifting his head more, Francis could see Arthur's eyes slowly distancing. He began to panic, though he kept it inside. It was too soon, from watching him nearly not make it, to simply watch him go back to sleep without worry. His fingers shook a little, betraying him. "Y-yes Arthur?"

"Kiss me?" he muttered, eyes starting to close.

Francis' breath hitched lightly and Arthur questioned mildly if he was wondering if it would be their last kiss. He wasn't dying. He was just very tired. Francis forced himself to his feet, removing the air mask gently and placed his lips against Arthur's.

It was gentle, and yet he could feel all the emotion inside it, as much as any passionate kiss they had shared. _Don't die_, Francis was begging him. _I wont_, Arthur replied through their kiss and then broke it, falling further into the pillows with a small smile on his lips. "I'm not going anywhere," he whispered and fell into the realm of quiet slumber.


End file.
